I am on the verge of death, at the point of extinction
So, these thoughts are pouring out of an unfiltered mind
unrestricted by the constraints of general platitudes
desperate to find their way to the shorelines of existence
The moment of impact, transpired when the mind took recognition of itself
and therefore lost it's will to impart and express, through shy embarrassment of being discovered
So, perhaps much of life is composed of such moments,
where the creation sinks into the lava of pompei, because it is confronted with a cynical mind consistently judging it
The creation was always free, but the mind was the Judas
The whole point of life must be to grow, expand in an organic way
So do me a favor, each morning, get up and throw away the old self
exist in an empty space composed entirely of the totality of your blissfulness
Throw yourself away each morning, let that old person sink into the ground
Because new flowers are growing every day, and you are also born in each of them
It's unexplainable, but the feeling that you are connected to nature is right
the fabric of existence plants itself into every pore of your being
You owe it to yourself, you have an obligation to feel yourself
You have the right to be in touch with the way you feel
You have a right to feel the blissfulness of your existence each day
You have a right to feel life.....nobody has the right to take your life away from you
One day, you will be discussing life like you discussed your university experience
Ungrateful of it at the time, but impossible to now re-state how wonderful and magical an opportunity it was.
WATCHING AN IDEA DISSOLVE AS YOU SCRAMBLE OUT OF BED IN AN ATTEMPT TO WRITE IT DOWN....
In search of purity
I am going to attempt to break it down right now, in front of myself.
From the darkness, something beautiful is born.
It exists in its own right, something organic grappling for growth
You are trying to picture the image,
You are trying your best to crystalize the image
to bring solidity to the feeling that consumes you
a thought, feeling has arisen in you
and you want to make it solid, flesh it out, turn it to reality
you wish to give it clarity, distinction, grounding
but, then the horsemen come..
you begin to hear the sounds of their hoofs stomping upon the ground
the clarity of the image begins to fade, the sound becomes distorted
someone is pulling the image into a thousand different directions
you attempt to stabilize, to hold it together, to push the bricks into order
the house is evaporating before your very eyes,
here comes the self-perception, here comes judgment, here comes criticism, here comes public recognition,
here comes the public world-view, here comes self-awareness, here comes a separate strand of thinking on an unrelated matter
here comes the loss of memory, the self-hatred of the idea, the demon who mocks you for ever having had any self-belief
Here comes the world, raining on your parade, reality breaking down your door, tearing you from your idea
turning the image to a blurry indistinct scrawl, turning a 16:9 to a 174:83, the scorn of everything
They have hammers, they smash at your mind's door,
memory lost, they have won...you cant even remember what it was anymore.
You're child has been kidnapped, in a public confrontation
They charge at you, unwilling to let you document your idea
They wish to obscure your purity, create a battleground in your mind
and then....you switch the light on
because that idea is now dead.